


Wisps

by Phlegethon



Series: Elapsed [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Gold & Silver & Crystal | Pokemon Gold Silver Crystal Versions
Genre: Backstory, Drabble, Gen, Pre-Game(s), Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phlegethon/pseuds/Phlegethon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You smell like an ashtray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisps

**Author's Note:**

> First meeting between a newly recruited Proton and one lazy Executive.

Wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of fumes and the occasional laugh. It's no surprise most of the grunts are fond of him, what with the way he tends to take the seriousness of things in stride. There are few who're unable to relax around him, his very presence something that you wouldn't think would belong in the tedious ranks of Team Rocket. He jokes about how he likes the uniform, about how the money is good, about how it’s easier than getting a job anywhere else, eh? He never really divulges much about his personal reasons, but most don’t pry.

It’s not just because they’d rather he not blow them off, but there’s something about trying to peel into the life history of an executive that doesn’t really sound like it would end in good favors.

\------------

Most of Petrel's pay goes down the hole that is the packs of cigarettes that constantly line his pockets. He's the very definition of a chainsmoker, a bad habit he can't care to kick. It's a rare occurrence indeed to see him _without_ one of those white sticks hanging lazily from between dry lips, staining his tongue and his clothes with the stench of nicotine and chemicals. It doesn't help that his choice in Pokemon results in another noxious form of smoke that tends to cling to him at all times; after a while, though, you become used to the burning smell.

He has work to do, but he thinks he's deserved a break for a short while after that last assignment. His gangly limbs are somewhat sore, bony shoulders rolling as he leans against one of the many walls that line the headquarter's corridors. There's always hustle and bustle in the distance, somewhere beyond the hallway he's occupying, the sound of grunts and scientists scuttling back and forth with their work. Things to research, items to steal, Pokemon to catalog and keep in their shiny cages. It's not a job he necessarily enjoys, but work is work, and nice guy as he was, honest work wasn't really his forte. All sound blurs into background noise, cut out by the sound of metal clinking and the push of a thumb that reveals a flame flickering to life to meet with the end of the cigarette in his mouth.

The taste is comforting and re-energizing, smoke slowly rolling around in his mouth as he taps a couple ashes to the floor below. A second, another, and a slow exhale sees a log plume of grey that curls as it arises to the ceiling in an uneven manner. The second smoke break of many that would be sure to follow. He was sure Archer was getting sick of getting paperwork that carried such a sour scent, which was why he did try to limit himself.

The keyword was try. 

He's halfway done when he finally notices he's not alone, starting slightly at the smaller form mere steps away. Either he'd been too distracted to notice him walking up, or the kid was secretly some sort of ninja (which couldn't be too far off; you should see those recruits from Mahogany town). There's a fumble of hands as he nearly drops his cigarette, but he manages to right himself, purple eyes locking onto the face of the new arrival as he stares with an incredulous look plastered on his face.

He's young. Not necessarily kid-young, but definitely barely older than 18. Kinda skinny, although definitely not on the same level as Petrel himself, and the wisps of green that frame his face only seem to accent the sharp look he's receiving from underneath the brim of his hat. Damn, that is one burning gaze. 

He subconsciously shifts, wondering if he has something on his face before slipping white back between his lips, simply offering a blink and a lazy smile to accompany the drawl that slips into the open air.

"Help you with something?"

Silence reigns, and he wonders if this guy is gonna scuttle off or something without a word, but the curl of a lip and the raising of a brow quickly diffuses that idea pretty quickly. Whoever he is, he looks like he's stepped in something awful, and the next thing out of his mouth earns nothing short of a gawk.

"You smell like a fucking **ashtray**. Take a shower, you hippie."

And with that, he sidesteps him and continues on his way down the corridor, leaving a bewildered executive to watch him leave.

\------------

His name is _Proton._

Or so he says. Nicknames and aliases aren't uncommon in a place like this, so he wouldn't be surprised to learn it was fake. Either way, it became painstakingly clear the guy had a reputation already. It doesn't take much to point him out in a crowd; everything about him screamed liquid violence. There are few people around who have the gall to speak to just anyone with vulgar words and disgust, and that pool is depleted even further with a physical description. Apparently, from what the others are telling him, he has a bad tendency to go off on anybody who pisses him off. A bundle of rage all packaged into one 5'10" new recruit, one that already has his own mini fanclub. 

Petrel is only asking for a couple reasons. One, he seemed like an entertaining kid altogether, and two, he wanted to confirm he was somebody not familiar with Team Rocket's hierarchy. Most people were able to tell he was an executive and avoid trying to say anything unpleasant, but judging by how quick he'd been to insult the older man, it became obvious he hadn't encountered any higher ranks personally yet. No matter. It's not like he wanted to give him a scolding or anything like that.

He was just curious.

\------------

The next time they meet, the look he gets is best described as wary. His stance is the same, weight resting on one leg, watching with glinting green eyes for any kind of negative reaction. Proton's been told of his mistake, apparently, and he's not stupid enough to try something again just like that, which is why he keeps his mouth shut and back muscles rigid.

"So."

He lets him stand there for a few seconds, like a criminal before a judge awaiting sentencing, before he finally finishes off what was coming.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, kid?"

The first reaction is disbelief, and then it slides into a bad case of the eye-rolls. The lax way he's being regarded says enough to him, like he's spent a while reading people before he joined up, which admittedly only peaks Petrel's curiosity more, even as a scoff is thrown in his direction.

"You kiss yours with that rat on your chin?"

Ouch.

"Hey, now. That's a little mean-spirited." Gloved fingers tug another smoke out of the box in his hands, rolling it between his fingers. The tension that may have previously thrived from the younger's anxiety of being reprimanded as apparently faded into the air like dust, taking the words sliding from between the elder's lips as permission to freely continue with his ill-intended sass. There's something refreshing about somebody who wasn't afraid of slipping up around you, even if his habits were somewhat questionable.

He watches as eyes slide toward the item in his hands, prompting a quirk of a purple brow as he follows his gaze. It slides from him, to it, to back to him a few times before he extends the other hand, a tap on the cardboard sliding another white stick forward, ripe for the taking should he so choose to indulge. Already, he has his own in his mouth, but he doesn't reach for a lighter until he receives an answer in the form of a suspicious gaze as Proton carefully takes it.

"You didn't strike me as the type, you know." Eyes narrow in response, and it's clear he's tempted to shove the 'peace offering' up somewhere unpleasant.

"Oh, shut it. Don't offer then, dumbass."

"What can I say? I'm a curious guy." Pack now tucked away where the inscriptions written in black and gold can't be read, he proceeds to pull out a block of silver, pad of a thumb throwing it open and holding it up with flickering flame at the ready. Rather than accept charity, it's snatched away with nimble figures even Petrel finds himself having a hard time following, and only watches as the grunt lifts it to the stick between his lips and lights it. 

What he isn't expecting is the aggressive round of coughing that follows as he nearly chokes on the smoke that swells in his lungs, a choked laugh sliding out from the executive's lips as he watches Proton hack up his lungs. The look he sends him is utterly humiliated, not helped by the amused wheezes he's gotten in return for the show he's put on, and without another word he throws the still-smoking nicotine at the older man's face and storms off with a face as red as rubies.

\------------

The next day, Petrel finds himself practically hunted down as Proton corners him and demands another, the expression on his face and tone tinting his words clearly not taking 'no' for an answer.

This time, he doesn't choke.


End file.
